


as the world caves in

by honeyyhop



Series: The First Ones [2]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Death, M/M, Sapnotfound - Freeform, look i couldn't resist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28766970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyyhop/pseuds/honeyyhop
Summary: Dream, the God, the trickster, the lover and the enemy, the pretender. No doubt George wants nothing to do with whatever reminds him of the man he could have loved, in another world. In another lifetime, it could’ve been fate.In these kingdoms, no such thing exists.Sapnap lifts his head. “I think we know by now that I don’t pretend with you, George.”The destruction begins.Sapnap thinks his time is up.
Relationships: GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Series: The First Ones [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2072937
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	as the world caves in

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel - or epilogue of sorts - of a previous work of mine, “save it for a rainy day”. You can read it here, https://archiveofourown.org/works/28158963/chapters/68999295, which will definitely give you a *lot* of context for this fic! I hope you enjoy, comments and kudos are always are appreciated and as always, thanks for reading <3

It’s a cruel irony that it begins to rain as Sapnap says goodbye. 

He burns at the world and all it’s done to hurt him, at Dream, and who he is. The person he can’t help being. He mourns that loss of a life, that absence of heart, the hollowness that lingers when he glances to his left and finds nothing but emptiness. It’s just him and George now, and once, he was sure that that was all he ever wanted, ever needed. But now…

Things are different. 

They were always a trio - Dream, Sapnap, George. One couldn’t exist without the other. No war could be fought with just Dream when Sapnap was right alongside him - George, waiting for him on the sidelines, saying his name like an oath. George, snarky and soft, who avoids wars like a plague, would sacrifice his discomfort just for Dream. He’s stubborn that way. Now, that stubbornness doesn’t feel like a weapon, but a curse. He never lets go of Dream, of his presence, his laugh, his smile, and even Sapnap can’t wrestle that away from himself, either.

The rain burns. It’s a silent reminder of all that they’ve lost. 

Sapnap can hardly bear it. 

George looks at him, helpless, those warm eyes, thin and wavering like the wing of a butterfly, and he’s a far cry from the kid that he and Dream had taken in in the deep woods. He’s not the quiet, solemn boy with flowers in his hair and mushrooms tucked in his arm. He doesn’t build or create anymore - no, that spark has been washed away from years and years of being told what to be. He’s been a reject, a King, and now unaccounted for. He’s been heartbroken - twisted until Sapnap can’t tell what he even is anymore. What  _ they  _ are anymore. They spent so long yearning and wishing and praying for  _ something  _ beyond their reach that now it’s hard to remember a time where Sapnap  _ wasn’t  _ fighting for George’s attention and George only had eyes for Dream. 

They look at each other now and it’s unfamiliar, unfiltered. Sapnap doesn’t know what to do with the sensation that he hasn’t won, not really. It  _ should  _ feel good. He got George. Dream is left with nothing, and Sapnap has found everything he ever wanted. 

_ So why doesn’t it feel like a victory?  _

It should be Sapnap’s triumph. His happy ending. 

George isn’t as hopeful, either. He’s always been a mystery of sorts, always trying to guard his feelings, leaning slightly away from Dream and Sapnap in the light and hiding against their chests in the dark. He shies away from seriousness with his soft, bubbling giggles hidden behind a hand, palms hiding his red cheeks as if laughter will wash away the threat of war and death. Perhaps that was why he never had full control as a King. He always hated it. But even he misses being  _ something.  _

Since they turned their back on Dream, every movement is tentative. By this point, George is fully aware of the angry, urgent love that Sapnap can’t help for him. And that confession still lingers between them. The way George looks at Dream. The way he looks at Sapnap. 

They’re afraid to act, to take a chance, to toe the line. Letting themselves go means letting go of 

Dream, and neither of them are quite ready for that.

They’re doomed, the two of them. An inevitable tragedy. They’re a kiss that never connects, a lonely harmony, a wistful song. Sapnap burns and George pours but they’re nothing without Dream, ultimately, and they know it. 

Hours before the war, Sapnap turns the corner and stops. At the opposite end of the path, George meets his gaze, cheeks burning and trying desperately to look presentable. Trying to hide how his lips tremble, how his body isn’t made for war and destruction.

It’s so familiar.

It’s Dream’s old armour that he bears. Sapnap recognises it in an instant.

It’s sizes too big for him, straps uneven and chestplate sinking too low on his body, the plates on his arms clicking and shifting messily with every movement. He’s tossed aside his glasses for the day, and his hair is ruffled by the morning frost. He’s awkward, bumbling and blushing. It’s the most beautiful Sapnap has ever seen him.

And the most afraid. 

George has always been a healer, not a fighter, but Dream is gone. It changes things. Today, Sapnap doesn’t fight against Niki or Fundy or Tommy, but the rogue hog, Technoblade. Today, they’re united - and no matter how optimistic, how cocky he wants to be, he could have the biggest army in the world and still be no match for that vengeful blade. Today, George has been forced into this mess. Forced to look the enemy in the eye without Dream by his side and not shake, but  _ God,  _ he’s shaking. 

Trying to hide it, but trembling slightly, nerves making his hands twist, make him bounce on his toes. Sapnap walks towards him and watches George try and shy away from his amber gaze. 

“Hey.” 

“Hi.” His voice is small, but he persists. “I think Technoblade will see me and run away screaming.” He puffs out his chest and flexes, earning a rough laugh from Sapnap.

“I’m shaking in my boots, George. Seriously. Very scary.” He’s laughing, trying to dodge the truth.

George fakes a pout. “Erm, no,  _ you’re  _ not supposed to be scared of me. Only that traitor.”

He bows, low and deep. “My apologies. I’ll pretend for your sake then, just so I don’t bruise your  _ clearly  _ massive ego.” 

George blinks down at him, eyes round and gleaming. “Don’t pretend.” His voice is suddenly dangerously serious. “I don’t want you to pretend around me. I’ve had enough of that.” 

Dream, the God, the trickster, the lover and the enemy, the pretender. No doubt George wants nothing to do with whatever reminds him of the man he could have loved, in another world. In another lifetime, it could’ve been fate. 

In these kingdoms, no such thing exists. 

“I think we know by now that I don’t pretend with you, George.” His voice is unusually gentle, tentative, as ugly as the words are on his tongue. As of late, he’s been too open with his feelings, too eager, too brash. Sapnap is reckless, and George feels the sting of every move he makes more than anyone else. 

George shifts slightly, and Sapnap doesn’t know how to feel when he sees his pale cheeks patched with pink, his hands wringing together - he has wrestled a blush from the former King, maybe even against his will, and it makes him hesitate. 

But George manages, “your transparency means the world to me. I hope you know that.” 

Of course it would, after Dream. He needs the truth and nothing but the truth, as bitter as it may be. 

“You mean the world to me,” Sapnap says, and means it.

The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but there’s a note of uncertainty, as if George doesn’t dare to answer, but he can feel that song bursting at the lips, that yearning. Things he so badly wants to say, but couldn’t even he tried. He’s lost. Sapnap doesn’t beg for more than he deserves. He knows things are fragile enough as it is. 

George shifts again, heels dipping, and Sapnap becomes aware of every miniscule detail of  _ him  _ in his precise, intent gaze, determined to look anywhere but at those soulful eyes that seem to be so many Autumns away from the war. He focuses on how the old armour -  _ Dream’s  _ armour - is cracked in places and messily polished, and spots of darkness still linger on the chestplate that George hasn’t quite scrubbed. He’s still clinging to the old, battle-worn memories of his friend.

They both are.

He forces his eyes to stay away from anything dangerous, anything that would lure him in, anything that would inspire him to follow his instincts and turn George away. Make him run and hide far away from the death that hounds them. It’s a temptation to keep him safe; he wants George to  _ live _ . Selfish, he knows, but he wants it even more than he wants  _ him - _ to see him alive. To see that smile survive through the day to come.

There’s another reason, too.

_ He doesn’t want George to watch him die.  _

He swallows, the weight of those thoughts anchoring deep in his gut and not budging. One of George’s shoulder straps is uneven, and in an easy step, he moves to adjust it, body nervously falling into place behind him. Sapnap is taller - barely, but it’s always been a point of George to stand on his toes to match his height. Today, though, his shoulders are slumped. There’s a helplessness in the air that affects even him, and even though he doesn’t wear a crown anymore, the weight of that past still crushes him slightly. 

Sapnap tightens the strap, and his fingers are bumbling enough for George to be fully aware of how close they are - how his breath is hot on the back of his neck, how the side of his palm barely brushes his neck. How one of his hands fits perfectly in the crook of George’s back, curled comfortably, gripping him like a whisper. How Sapnap is suddenly and strangely quiet.

George twists his head slightly to glance over his shoulder. “Sapnap?” 

Only a fool could be blind to the burdened silence that grips them in its claws. 

He lingers for too long. 

“It’s fixed,” he chokes out, moving in a rush, taking a step back.

“Thank you,” George says, and he talks too fast, cheeks are too red for Sapnap to think he’s crossing a line. No, almost as if… 

He grits his teeth. “Dream’s armour, huh?” 

It’s forbidden and cursed to even let that name fall into the emptiness, but it’s there and George is already moving to him, clasping both hands against Sapnap’s chest as if pleading with him, desperate. 

His words come out in a tumble. “This was, uh, the last set in the armoury - and I didn’t want to  _ take it -  _ of course not! And I didn’t want to tread on any toes but now it doesn’t  _ fit  _ and I knew it’d be a pain to even look at it after… after… and Hell, I don’t know how to fight, Sapnap-” 

“George.” 

“- and I don’t see a good way for this to end-” 

_ “George. Stop.”  _

Sapnap seizes George’s wrists in his hands and squeezes gently, trying not to startle him - and quietly, he feels George’s fingers move to intertwine with his. Even Sapnap - bold, brash Sapnap - stills at that, breathing catching in his throat. 

George pauses, his head bowed, and in a small voice adds, “I’m practically useless here. I don’t even know how to tighten a damned strap.”

They’re so close.

Hours before the war, Sapnap bows his head to the rain, letting thick, ugly drops of water cup his cheeks and slip down his armour. Softly, tentatively, he presses his forehead to George’s and rests there, their hands twined at their chests, nose to nose. George’s eyes flutter closed, and rain catches his lashes. 

It’s there that Sapnap realises what has to be done. 

“George. Get out of here.”

“Sapnap…?” 

“Get out of here - George, you said it yourself. You don’t want to be here. You can’t - I don’t -” 

He can’t mistake George stirring in dismay - he’s heard this kind of rejection before. He’s been turned away like this. It’s so familiar, so bitter on his lips that he has half a mind to recoil from George’s touch, afraid to burn him again. But George is quiet. He waits. He lingers for an explanation, for the blow of the words to come and shatter him once again.

“I can’t watch you fall in this war. Not on my behalf.” 

“You need me,” he protests. Sapnap always needs him, every moment of every day, and even now he can hardly bear to utter the thought of separating. “You all need me.”

They have numbers. But even with George, it’s Technoblade who has the upper hand. It’s Technoblade with his wicked weapons and tusks and claws. They lose with or without him - and it’s Quackity who’s said countless times that it’s all or nothing. The war takes any shape it can get its hands on, but not George. Not today. 

“Run,” he whispers. “Run away, George, and save yourself.” 

“Only with you. I’m not leaving you behind, not after…” 

_ Dream. _

“I have to stay,” Sapnap chokes out. It’s his duty now, his sworn promise. Quackity stays. Karl stays. And so does he. Even the naive children, those reckless youths - Tommy, Tubbo, Ranboo - stay behind for that beloved country of theirs. What kind of hero would Sapnap be if he abandoned them to die? 

“Then I-”

“No.” His voice is firm, but he’s suddenly smiling breathlessly, perhaps becoming aware in an instant of how close they are, of how warm George’s hands are twined with his. It’s almost laughable. “No, you can’t. Not for me. For once in your damned life, be selfish, and save yourself.” 

“I want to stay with you.” 

“And I want you to stay. But you - you’d… you’re going to…”

George doesn’t reply. He knows as well as anyone what fate awaits him. It scares Sapnap, too, more than he could possibly admit. He has a stoic reputation to maintain, after all. 

George’s voice is small. “Sapnap. I don’t want to be a coward.”

“You’re the bravest person I know,” he urges. “It’s me who’s the coward, making you run away like this, but it’s…” His eyes burn. “You will not die for me today, George.” 

“We die together-”

“No.” Sapnap doesn’t dare to pull away, not when this moment is so precious, their foreheads meeting, eyes squeezed shut. “You don’t.” 

He knows what has to be done. George won’t be forced to watch his downfall, not today. He’ll meet his fate with open arms and a damning cry to the God who did this to him, but he won’t let George see even a glimpse of it. 

“You’re leaving. And you’re not going to look back.”

“I’m leaving,” George echoes, voice cracking, “and I’m not looking back.”

“You won’t come back for me.”

“I won’t come back for you.” 

“Do you promise, George? Do you swear it?” 

Sapnap had once crossed his heart that they would be together forever. Him, Dream, George. The perfect triangle. But even the strongest shapes can be shattered, and the pair of them pick up the pieces as best they can.

“I swear it.”

Sapnap tilts his head back slightly, blinking. The world is so bright when he dares to open his eyes. George’s eyes are searing, the irises the brown and gold of fallen leaves, of smoldering coals. They hurt, watered slightly and helpless. But there’s a shred of hope there, a silent wish that Sapnap wants so badly to cling to. 

George is right there, and he is beautiful, and what more does Sapnap need, really? If he is to die, he wouldn’t take it any other way. 

Where Dream is Death, George is life incarnate. 

He finds himself staring, and the silence becomes an obvious confession, a declaration of selfish intent. He inclines his head then hesitates, briefly. George is watching him, one hand still curled in his, subtly pulling him closer. 

Sapnap ducks his head. “May I…?”

“I’m not a King anymore,” George says. “You don’t exactly need my permission.”

“Crown or no crown. Title or no title. I’ll have you either way, George.” 

“You’re no Knight.” 

“For you, I am,” he says, and they connect. 

Their kiss is tentative, a silent question, barely a whisper of contact, but it’s enough to make Sapnap drunk on the lightness that seizes him, like he’s floating. He feels George’s grip on his hand tighten, then slacken. He barely feels the rain. 

It’s not a triumphant thing to kiss George. It’s not a sense of victory. No, this is defeat, this is bittersweet. He’s been waiting for this for months, but this isn’t a happy ending. It’s not a story, poetry, a song of love and joy. George is soft, and gentle, and awkward. His lips are nothing but a farewell. To wait so long only to kiss him as he abandons him… Sapnap squeezes his hand once. Twice. Trying to tell him not to worry. 

They both know what has to happen next, but it still shatters them when they inevitably break apart. George sucks in a breath and steps back, still clinging to Sapnap’s hand even as he backs away. Every step drags him away. Their fingertips brush, and then there’s nothing but emptiness. Sapnap is suddenly gripped in an angry chill, and the rain pricks at him. 

“Hold still,” he whispers. With fumbling fingers, he steers George around and strips him of his chestplate, the armour strapping his arms, his knees, piece by piece, his hands lingering briefly against his pale skin. Every touch feels like trespass now that they know they’re doomed. He kneels before him, palms on either side of his knees as he unhooks the plates of iron - of course, Dream has long since upgraded to Netherite. And when he stands, hands drifting across George’s waist and he presses a tender kiss to the cool side of his neck, it’s his silent dismissal. 

It’s over.

Sapnap lifts his head. George is backing away now, holding his gaze, cheeks red. Strands of hair fall across his eyes. 

“No matter what,” Sapnap says, tone gruff and gritted. “You don’t come back for me.”

“Sapnap-” 

“I mean it. Don’t come back. You promised.”

“Please,” George bursts out. “Just… just run away with me. Just let it all go, Sapnap. After all we’ve been through, don’t you think we deserve that much?” 

They do. But Sapnap has already sworn to look death in the eyes and accept his fate. 

Pointedly, he turns his head away. “You’ll remember me, George, won’t you?” 

He doesn’t reply, but the answer is clear, even as George backs away, away from his discarded armour, away from memories of Dream. Towards another dawn. “You really think I wouldn’t?” 

“I dunno, but I have the feeling I’m the memorable sort of guy.” 

“Yeah.” George’s chuckle wavers away on the wind. “You kind of are.” 

George turns around, and whilst he doesn’t look back, Sapnap can see his shoulders shaking.

In the distance, a wolf strikes up a howl of war.

* * *

Quackity wears no armour. He rolls up his sleeves as if he knows what he’s doing, smooths down the crinkled, stained apron that is tied around him with an easy, careless air. He forces himself to adopt that same sly grin that always decorates his features. Sapnap meets him in the old, crumbling remains of the house that George and Quackity built under the bridge together. No more green. No more flowers, no more small sprouts peeking up through the cracks of destruction. It’s been destroyed for months, long since griefed, but Sapnap finds himself coming back, again and again, searching for  _ something.  _ Looking for any clue that the vows he made here are still holding strong. 

It’s there, in the crumbled remains of their memories, that Sapnap and Quackity crouch, warming their hands on a small, messily built fire. The air has chilled, cold and unforgiving, since Sapnap arrived, and they can hear the rain pelting the bridge over their heads. When the sun is at its peak, Techno swore to destroy them - but they can barely see the light through the thick, angry cloud cover. 

Quietly, Quackity says, “where the fuck is George? He said he’d meet us here.”

It takes all of Sapnap’s effort to reply, “I dunno.” To pretend to seem ignorant as Quackity launches into a rant, cheeks red with cold. 

“I don’t know, man. It just feels like… I don’t know, like I can’t rely on him anymore. He’s just never around. This is the biggest day of our lives, and where is he?” 

“I’m sure he’s okay.” Sapnap isn’t prepared for the guilt that seizes him. He did this. He forced George to save himself - but at whose cost? Quackity still needs him, needs  _ someone  _ to depend on. Sapnap is there, but he’s never quite been that person for him. 

“No, Sapnap, he has to be here.” 

  
“He will be.” Oh, the regret sears him. Quackity has sharp, intent eyes that seem to cut through lies like a blade, and when he watches Sapnap carefully, perhaps he can tell that he’s hiding something, trying to protect George. Perhaps he’s more aware than he lets on.

Quackity swallows. “I don’t know. I just reckon’ he should be here by now. He promised he’d come. Promised he’d fight.”

“You know how elusive George can be.” But Quackity knows better than anyone that George always manages to escape from conflicts not from his own desires, but through the ones of those surrounding him. It has always been Dream or Sapnap driving him away from wars, trying to keep him safe. Perhaps it was never smart to try to shield the King from battle. Perhaps they were only delaying the inevitable. 

Dream, the God, would understand not to shatter the set path of a mortal, surely? Sapnap had blindly followed his lead before he even knew what his friend even  _ was.  _ Had he been contributing inadvertently to George’s fate?

“Yeah,” Quackity mutters. “He’d better not miss this.”

He leans back to puff warm air into his cupped hands, eyes focused on the flicker of the fire. 

There’s something about his thinned pupils, the thick, oversized jacket he keeps hugged around him at all times that makes Sapnap too curious about Quackity for his own good. The guy has always been somewhat of a mystery, but no one minds. He’s effortlessly funny and politically motivated, so no one tends to question him. He built El Rapids from ash and dust. 

Quackity is hiding something. He’s never  _ totally  _ honest - he’s made himself an expert of dodging difficult questions and creating sly explanations from his tongue without having to outright  _ lie,  _ a talent that Sapnap could never master. He’s far too brash for that. But Quackity… oh, he knows how to manipulate. 

There’s something shaky in those eyes, too. 

“Quackity?”

“Hm?”

“Are you frightened?”

Quackity looks around, as if searching for hidden surveillance, but his eyes fell on the jagged remains of his and George’s house. That had been their haven, once. Now it’s just dust. Sapnap misses those flowers, those shreds of George amid talk of war and death. He misses the mushrooms, the healer and the poet who he’s grown so attached to. The aching emptiness where George should be swells and swells and swallows him, a constant reminder of who should be fighting at his side.

_ Did I do the right thing, to make him go?  _ He can’t help but wonder, but doubt himself. In war, every decision counts. Every life is precious. He wonders if it would be better to be able to see George in his final moments. Or would it be blissful to just have that memory of him in his grasp when the light winks away? 

He realises that Quackity is cautiously silent, still mulling the question over, and Sapnap shakes himself out of his trance.

“Of dying?” Quackity tries. 

“I suppose so. War. Death. It’s all the same, isn’t it?”

“I dunno about that, Sapnap. I…” He cocks his head. “Sure. Let’s say I’m scared to die, but I’m here anyway, fighting for whatever the fuck  _ this  _ is.” He gestures blandly to the campfire, then Sapnap and himself, the remains of his fallen country. “What of it? It’s not as if I’m going to turn back now. I’ve put up with too much shit for that.” His eyes flash, clearly thinking back to Schlatt. A beat of hesitation. “Is this about George?” 

_ Yes. _

“Not exactly-”

“You think George isn’t with us right now because he’s  _ scared?  _ Give me a break. George is one of the bravest people I know, if not slightly melodramatic.” He smiles wryly. “No, I just think… I think George just loses himself sometimes.” 

Sapnap is determinedly quiet. He did this. 

“Just like at the election.”

“Everyone likes to say he slept through it,” Sapnap says, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“Of course we do, that fucker. I honestly wouldn’t put it past him.” Quackity laughs, high and free, and for a moment Sapnap is lulled into a false sense of security, one wrapped in past memories of the days they spent here, curled on the roof. Quackity would strum a guitar, and some days Karl would come too, would sit next to Sapnap and try to sing along to an incomprehensible tune. 

He finds himself missing those days, even when they were riddled with jealousy and longing.

“But no,” Quackity continues, shoulders slumping. “I don’t think George being there could have changed anything, really.” 

“But you and Schlatt…” 

“Our paths would still cross, I think. If the Gods will me to suffer, then so be it.” 

A pang of unease hits him, remembering Dream. He was once one of them - still is, technically. Talk of fate and chance still make him nervous after so many weeks. When he imagines Dream’s hand carving the paths of his friends rather than some cruel faceless entity, it's harder to distance himself from the guilt that meeting Dream in his small shell of a mortal’s body had somehow caused all of this. He had brought the God to the doors of their kingdoms, brought him to his knees before the one thing he would worship. 

_ Death.  _

“Allow me to enlighten you on some things, Sapnap, since you spend too much time fighting or pining to hear certain rumours.”

He tries to ignore Quackity’s raised brow, turning his head pointedly. “Go on, then, if you know so much.” 

“I expect you to take such things to the grave.” 

  
_ Oh, he will.  _

“There’s rumours about Technoblade. Gossip carrying on the wind. Maybe you’ve heard it already - I don’t know. But they’re saying that Technoblade isn’t just some rogue contact that Tommy happened to pull out of his ass to ruin all of our lives.” 

Sapnap snorts. “I could have told you that much. You know Tommy; never stops boasting.  _ Techno’s a legend. Techno’s an ancient hero. Techno is my brother.  _ That sort of stuff is normal from him.” 

“It’s worse,” Quackity breathes. “So much worse, Sapnap.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Whispers on the breeze are saying that Technoblade is a God.” 

A God. 

Not just an old, battle-hardened warrior that Tommy had scavenged from some Hell-hole, but deity turned flesh.  _ Like Dream-  _

But Dream had always acted as if he was in the wrong place, as if he had been trapped in this strange, unfamiliar body and was using it as best he could. Technoblade used his wicked form with ease. He never once seemed out of place, as if he was bred for the battlefield and to unleash blood on the world. 

“The Blade? A God? Are you… you sure?” 

“Do I look like I’d lie? I, uh - on second thought, don’t answer that.” 

“I don’t believe you.”

Quackity narrows his eyes, and without a word, slings his jacket up and over his shoulders, and curled tightly against his back are two dark shapes… 

No, not shapes. 

_ Wings.  _

Sharp feathers twisted in all directions, fluttering with a ghostly wind, jutting from either side of Quackity’s spine. They’re golden in colour, tinged with dark stripes, and as he stretches them out gingerly, it takes Sapnap a moment to to realise that he can see the rocks in gnarled gaps through his feathers - his wings have been shredded, holes ripped in them with thick angry talons that clearly didn’t care about being clean. The harder he stares, the more he thinks the light on his feathers look like ancient, dried blood stains. 

“ _ This  _ is why any so-called God terrifies me,” Quackity says, tucking his wings against his back. “Because I know what those fuckers do to people like me - like us.” His eyes gleam. 

“But how - why -” 

“I’m a demigod,” Quackity says, in the kind of warning tone that says he’s had enough of being serious and is in danger of toeing back into laughing his struggles off. “I can’t fly - well, not anymore, anyway.” He picks up his jacket and puts it back on, shielding his wings, and with the bagginess of his clothes Sapnap never would have guessed what was tucked on either side of his spine. “People are talking about Technoblade. Haven’t you heard him call himself the  _ Blood God?”  _

“He’s all talk,” Sapnap protests hotly. 

“I ain’t afraid of anything anymore, Sapnap,” Quackity says quietly. “But Technoblade… he used to scare the shit out of me.” 

Sapnap remembers. Tommy brought this weapon of vengeance and chaos into the kingdoms, and Quackity was never quite able to sit in the same room as him. He was a politician, after all, not exactly a fighter. He’s grown a lot since then. 

Sapnap’s always been too cocky for his own good, and it’s gotten him into trouble more times than he could count. He always found it to taunt Technoblade… taunt a God? 

_ Just add it to the list of stupid things I’ve done to Gods,  _ he thinks sourly. 

“But not anymore?” 

“No. I’ve tried once, and now I try again. I fucking want Technoblade dead, and I’m not scared of any God. Not anymore.” 

“I think you are,” Sapnap counters easily. “You are, but of course you wouldn’t admit it.” 

  
“No.” 

Quackity stands up, straightening his jacket, and Sapnap looks up at him, amber eyes bright with curiousity. 

“Today is the day Technoblade dies.” 

Sapnap stands up as well, brushing dust from his armour. He can’t shake the image of Quackity kneeled in the ashes of his former home, ripped and gutted wings spread behind him like a fallen angel, mourning his past. He had always been so secretive - and even now, Sapnap is bursting with questions. 

“Together, then,” he agrees, lifting his head, ignoring Quackity seeming startled by his promise. “I’m willing to die to protect L’Manburg, and if you’re willing to say the same…”

“I am.” 

“Then we look Death in the eyes.” 

And Sapnap will. He’ll confront that freckled face, those sharp green eyes, that calculating smile. He’ll stare down Dream and he’ll love every second of it. After all, his friend never apologised for every insult he flung at them in his panic - and never spoke a word to them afterwards. They’re divided, inevitably, God and mortal, powerful and powerless. 

There’s a beat of heavy silence, and he feels Quackity shift on his feet, feels his realisation. “George isn’t coming… is he?” 

“No. He’s not.” 

Quackity moves past him to put a hand on the side of the explosion-bitten rock, prepared to haul himself to the surface and to the bridge. He doesn’t say a word in return, merely starts to climb in silent determination. Sapnap can see the edge of a wing jutting out from his clothes when he arches his back, and as he crawls onto the bridge, he holds out a hand to Sapnap. 

“Come on, then, brother. We have a war to win.” 


End file.
